Consequences
by Letting The Rain In
Summary: Nate takes a moment to be honest with himself and to observe Eliot after the job gone wrong. A continuation of Competence, so mild whump is to be expected.
1. Chapter 1

A continuation of Competence, possibly more than a one-shot. Nothing owned by me, of course, except the order of the words.

I'd like to thank everyone who left a review for Competence, especially those who didn't sign in because I couldn't reply to them. Of course, all comments were very much appreciated!

Enjoy!

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Nate used to drink because he enjoyed it.

He liked to swirl the liquor around the glass, watch as the colours danced like firelight captured in crystal; burgundy and amber and honeyed brown drawing him into their warmth, liquid jewels more alive than any cold stone could ever hope to be. He'd bring the glass to his nose, close his eyes and inhale – the same way others would a fine cigar. His mind would conjure wood smoke and hot sultry nights, a long slow river and the promise of something indefinable yet yearned for and he'd wait to take that first sip, anticipating the intricate flavour weaving across his taste buds like a complex harmony, dissolving on his tongue like vapour to begin the slow burn down his throat and the blossoming warmth within. His muscles would loosen, his mind letting go of the stresses of the day; he'd allow the alcohol to sift through the burdens like a breeze across a desk, stacks of paper slipping carelessly to the floor. It wasn't every night but on the occasions he indulged, Nate would go to bed relaxed.

Then after the illness and the hospital and the tiny coffin resting in cold, wet earth Nate drank with purpose. He poured with an unsteady hand and sweat on his upper lip, tipping his head back and swallowing hard. The alcohol burn was the only thing that could cover the taste of the bile in his throat, scorching his vocal chords into something rusty and bitter and beginning his descent into hardened silence. While Maggie talked and cried and sometimes screamed at him, Nate would drink and stare out the window and tap his fingers on the leather arm of the old chair in his office. It was easier not to talk anyway. He never said the right things, in too much pain at first to speak, then unable to become drunk enough to voice his hurt, the ache soaking up the liquor like a sponge and by the time he was ready to tell Maggie much of anything at all, she had gone and nothing held any attraction anymore. There was the bottle and reaching the end of it and reaching for another in an endless cycle of oblivion. Sometimes, upending the bottle and watching in a state of numbed apathy as the last drops fell, Nate would wonder if there would be enough liquor to last out his grief.

Tonight he poured a drink to look at it, to test his strength and dare it to break him.

Nate had a streak of sadism, a callousness he never suspected of himself, but after tonight's events he found himself seeking out more pain. He persecuted himself, tempting his resolve by slowly pouring up to the brim of the glass, watching as the liquid hugged the sides in syrupy narcissism, slow to let them go and caressing them teasingly as it did. He allowed himself a deep inhale through his nose, the familiar beckoning call as strong as any siren's song and closed his fingers around the glass. It was at his mouth before he knew what he was about and for a moment he teetered on the precipice before he noticed his lips were pressed into a thin line and his brow was drawn in a frown. Not even acknowledging he had turned the drink aside – to catch himself he'd had to slip up in the first place and that wasn't anything Nate would call a victory – he set the glass down on the counter and watched its contents spill over the rim and onto the wood. It sat in a sticky puddle, pulling together and drawing up; shiny barriers keeping as much of it away from the surface as it could. Nate smirked. Here it didn't ooze charm, seductive and clinging like fine perfume. Here it showed its true nature, oily and sneering.

With a snort, Nate turned away. He was too sober for that sort of thinking but he snatched up the glass again and brought it with him to the couch.

"Eliot."

The younger man was instantly alert, grey-blue eyes opening to regard him and the drink he held out. One glance at Nate was enough for him to reach out, to take it and knock it back, rubbing the glass between his fingers while Nate wiped his on his pants leg. He liked that about Eliot, he knew when silence was enough, when a shared glance said all there was to say. Aware he was standing over the hitter, Nate forced himself to step back towards the single chair and allow Eliot the space he'd been wanting. Still, while Eliot studied the glass, frowning and glaring at it and obviously deep in thought, Nate allowed himself to observe the man.

A job going south wasn't exactly unusual – hence the plans going up to and past M – they'd been ready for that eventuality in the form of Eliot, as always a one man escape route. What they hadn't been ready for, what _Nate_ hadn't been prepared for was Sophie being made long before they'd realised she had been. The baddie of the week had calmly let them go about their business, had let Nate continue to think he was one step ahead and Sophie, and therefore Eliot, had walked right into an ambush which was why Eliot was glowering at his glass as if it had done him some personal wrong and Nate was testing the limits of his self-discipline.

He would never forget the effort it took for Eliot to get up off that alley floor.

Nate was aware Eliot had many talents and interests – you could go spelunking in the man's hidden depths – but it was his sheer force of will that never ceased to amaze him. He'd watched with a kind of horrified fascination as he'd forced himself upright, as he struggled to find the strength to rise, as his breath came in shuttered gasps and his arms wrapped around himself. For a moment, taking in the damage done to the hitter's body and the seven unconscious men scattered behind them, Nate had doubted him and he'd stepped forward to get Eliot to his feet himself. Sophie had stopped him before he'd taken half a step – a white knuckled grip on his arm that would leave bruises – and the sudden jolt of unexpected touch had brought clarity of wisdom, the type that only happened once or twice in a lifetime.

Eliot had needed to do it himself. He couldn't allow himself to come to expect help; relying on others spelled the end for a hitter and for all that they were a team, for all that he was allowing himself to relax marginally around them, Eliot's facade, his aura of invincibility needed to remain intact to better enable him to do his job. If the team perceived any weakness on Eliot's part, the spell would be broken and they'd no longer trust blindly, they'd always hold back, watching and wondering if this time Eliot would fall. Sophie hadn't let go until with another herculean feat, Eliot stood.

He'd swayed unsteadily, his head bowed and his lungs working like bellows despite the pain of what Nate recognised as broken ribs and suddenly there hadn't been a force of nature strong enough to stop Nate from moving to Eliot's side then. Together they'd gotten back to the van, Eliot's weight steadily growing heavier as Sophie went ahead to open the back door. Nate hadn't been surprised when Sophie had climbed in the back with them, she'd had that steely look in her eye that no amount of cajoling, flattery or common sense would budge and Nate didn't pause to consider leaving himself, which left Parker riding shotgun as Hardison peeled out, demanding to know what was going on.

With practised ease, Nate had ignored him, concentrating on Eliot instead. He'd pulled apart Eliot's over shirt while Sophie found the scissors in the medical kit, neatly snipping up the centre of the tee-shirt Eliot had worn underneath to reveal the injuries below. In the dim light, Nate had had a hard time figuring out what to tackle first, not made any easier by Parker, who'd casually wondered why Eliot wasn't speaking. She had turned around in her seat completely, her knees on the cushion and her hands folded on top of the headrest, her chin resting on her knuckles to watch them.

"He normally swears by now," she'd shrugged, unfazed by his glare and he'd returned his attention to Eliot, who'd begun struggling to prove he wasn't as completely out of it as he appeared to be. As always seemed to happen, Sophie had beaten Nate to it.

"No, don't move," she'd advised, even as Eliot had reached for the small kit. Ignoring her and sending a muted glare in Parker's directed, Eliot had snatched up a wad of square bandages and clamped them hard against his shoulder, beneath his torn clothing.

The immediate problem of blood loss dealt with, Nate had settled on worry number two; there was, he'd suspected, a nasty lump hidden somewhere under all that hair because despite his best efforts, Eliot's balance had been all over the place and the way he'd pressed his lips into a tight line had signified a headache and Nate hadn't liked the colour of his face or the look of his eyes. Eliot had jerked irritably away from his touch but Nate had persisted silently, skimming his finger tips through his hair and over his scalp, wincing when he found the swelling above Eliot's right ear. The hitter had grunted and Nate had noticed his eyelids beginning to droop, his grip slackening on his shoulder and had told Sophie to put her own hands there and to keep pushing down hard. A little wild about the eyes, she'd glanced at him even as she'd moved to comply.

"Nate?"

"Concussion," he'd muttered, sitting back with a sigh and rubbing his face, watching as Eliot had let his head fall back and his eyes close. Turning back to Sophie, he'd not been able to do any more than shrug at her.

She'd stared back, nodding to her hands and the bloodstained makeshift bandage and if her voice had been a little higher than usual, no one had commented. "Does he need to go to the hospital?"

Eliot had roused himself enough to veto that idea, struggling to sit up straighter and take an active role in his own treatment. Nate had watched as his hand had trembled as he'd returned it to his injured shoulder. Sophie had wordlessly grasped it, still applying pressure to the wound but her eyes hadn't left Nate's. As much as he'd have liked to give Eliot the consideration he deserved, Nate had shaken his head. Considering the con they'd been on and the way it had panned out, the authorities and the questions they asked just hadn't been an option.

"Eliot's right," he'd conceded. "Hardison, take us to the apartment."

No one had had to ask which apartment Nate had meant; over the course of the last few months he'd become accustomed to finding one or more of his team members referring to his home as 'the apartment', as if they belonged there too. Only Eliot had had a problem with Nate's decision, growling that he was all right and could go home and becoming pissed when no one had taken any notice of him. No one had taken much notice of that either, Nate recalled.

Wrapped in their own thoughts, both Nate and Eliot jumped when Parker dropped unexpectedly into the seat next to Eliot. For a moment she stared at him as if expecting him to pull a coin out from behind her ear or maybe produce a rabbit out from one of the cushions before she raised a finger and made for his shoulder. When Eliot jerked away with a short hiss, she'd raised her eyes from the white square pad taped into place and smiled curiously.

"Does that hurt?"

"Does now," Eliot growled, that low, rumbling sound that warned most people to stay out of his way but for some reason only ever made Parker smile brighter.

Without warning she ducked her head, pressing the side of her face against his chest and surprised, Eliot could only look over the top of her hair at Nate in bewildered exasperation, both hands, Nate noticed, hovering over her shoulders but not pushing her away. He smiled back at the hitter lazily, casually calling the thief's name.

"Parker?"

Unembarrassed, she shook her head. "He sounds right."

"Right?" Galvanised into action, Eliot pushed her away. "What's wrong with you, get off me."

Springing easily to her feet and apparently unperturbed by Eliot's reaction, Parker sauntered towards the door. Her fingers curled around the handle, she glanced back at Nate, her expression serious. "He sounds right, Nate. You've got to make sure he sounds right."

Without another word, she was gone, leaving Eliot annoyed and Nate amused, shaking his head and standing. Advising Eliot to get some sleep, Nate headed for the stairs and his bed, more than willing to finally put the night to rest and feeling normal for the first time since he'd heard the gunshot. Closing his eyes, he paused to consider that sentence. When had Parker's oddities become normal? Still, if she could effectively halt his and Eliot's post job-gone-south musings with a strange bit of normalcy, he wasn't complaining.


	2. Chapter 2

It's hard to sleep.

It's the details. It's the adrenaline and the fear and the craving for something to dull the edges of the world but mostly, it's the details. Normally Nate likes being a details man, dealing in the microscopic, the minutiae, and the tiny, seemingly insignificant parts that make up the whole – plans within plans and a chain of reaction that passes far beyond what the eye can see and far beyond what most minds can perceive too, towards a distant but comprehensive future. Or, more accurately, towards a collection of futures lying parallel and meticulous, shiny and new and ready for use depending on the choices he makes.

But it's hard to think, sometimes, what with the details and futures crowding in on him. It's like being perpetually caught between two mirrors; no matter where he turns, all Nate can see is himself stretching into infinity. It's exhausting.

He is gifted in that his mind rarely shuts down but sometimes Nate wishes it would and it's these nights that see him turning to stare at the bottle or burying his face in his pillow in an attempt to suffocate the things in his head. There are tribal drums and pillars of fire and thoughts unrelenting in their quest for his attention, no matter how hard he tries to ignore them. Tonight is one such night the details are plaguing him after the fact; Nate has a steel trap mind but the gate is his imagination and the details have combined with Sophie's quiet description, affording him a panoramic view of the fight in the alley. Her words reverberate through him, in his memory her eyes are distant and frightened and awed. He remembers he got goose bumps listening to her and the hairs on his arms rise up again.

He rolls over in an attempt to clear his head but the thoughts roll with him and Nate's still in that alley watching Sophie watch Eliot and he can picture her as clear as if he had actually been stood with her. She remains where Eliot left her, her gaze pinned to the hitter's fast moving form and her hands clenched into fists at her sides, white knuckled and perfect nails digging crescents into her palms. Her mouth is dry and she wants to call out but she knows to do so would break Eliot's concentration so she is motionless and therefore invisible to the combatants ahead of her.

Sophie adds more details of the fight and now Nate can see Eliot, long hair whipping about his face a half second later than his movements because he didn't get a chance to tie it back. His body moves with a frightening purpose, his expression is focused and his intent clear. Eliot wants to put these men down in as little time as possible and has shifted into someone his team rarely see. The gunshot, Sophie tells Nate in a voice devoid of emotion, barely makes an impact; Eliot disarms the guy before ramming his elbow into his nose and she didn't think he'd been hit until he lets his arm hang limp at his side.

Again and again, Nate watches the fight, the details he knows adding sounds and smells to Sophie's descriptions. Moments stick in his mind, slamming across his consciousness harder and faster each time until Nate sits upright, defeated. Sleep, such a good friend during the drinking years, has abandoned him yet again. He feels old and used and yearns to feel numb once more.

Nate rises from his bed and heads downstairs. From the steps he can see a huddled lump on the couch; Eliot's given in to the late hour and the lack of dexterity and has crashed on the big cushions, bone weary in a way they've not seen before. The small lamp is still on in the kitchen area, dark enough for Eliot to sleep but light enough for Nate to make his way accident free through the apartment until he realises he doesn't know where he's going or what he intends to do when he gets there.

Momentarily lost, Nate regards Eliot again. On nights like these, Nate usually sits at the table and pretends the coffee is a good substitute for liquor, scanning the thousands of leads he's compiled to find their next client but right now he doesn't want to disturb the hitter. Eliot can be difficult to read sometimes, angry for no reason and unexpectedly gentle in equal parts; Nate doesn't want to know which one's his default setting because he's worried he's going to be disappointed.

In his mind, Sophie describes Eliot slamming the final man headfirst into the wall.

Eventually, Nate settles on returning to the armchair he'd occupied earlier on in the evening, wondering if he'll find peace in its welcoming embrace but from here he can see Eliot and the shadows on his face where bruises mar his skin and he doubts it. He tries to think of other things, of good times and jobs gone well but his eyes stray back to Eliot and his mind returns to the mess they're in and he knows it's futile. Come the morning, his team will look to him to fix things and he's not sure he's going to be able to; he's certainly unable to think of the next step for the moment because the details he's focused on are the wrong ones and he's playing a solitary game of what if with himself.

It's not a game he likes. In his experience, what if leads to should I and that only leads to a one way ticket to guilt, stopping on the way to pick up a bottle for company. Nate's fingers twitch and he swallows to try and make saliva, he's never been more aware of the inside of his mouth as when he needs a drink. His eyes track back to where he keeps his temptation within reach and he knows it would be so easy because no one would say anything in the morning, not after everything. He remembers Eliot urging himself to his feet in that alley. He remembers Sophie in the van, pale and trembling as she pressed down on Eliot's shoulder. He remembers feeling for the bullet with sharp, pointed tweezers, knowing he was causing more pain the longer he hunted for it and he remembers Parker hovering between curiosity and a weird sense of nervousness that had Hardison gripping her shoulder in case she got too close and he remembers Sophie lightly touching Eliot's hair and the hitter twitching away from her in surprise. And Nate wants to stop thinking and he wants to stop remembering and he wants to sleep but none of them are good enough excuses and he makes his gaze move from the cabinet back to Eliot. They wouldn't have said anything but Nate thinks their silence would be far worse than their condemnation anyway.

Eliot moves in his sleep and Nate welcomes the distraction, watching intently, waiting for him to do it again. He's never had an opportunity to study the man when he's this badly hurt and his curiosity is piqued. There have been bumps and bruises and contusions and cuts but always before, Nate's moved on into the future – his set of parallel, shiny futures – and has been too busy picking out which one he wants to use to take much notice other than to nod when Eliot tells him he's out of ice. Nate thinks Eliot prefers it this way, he doesn't much like being the centre of attention unless he has something important to say and Nate knows the hitter doesn't think minor injuries are important enough for anyone else to worry about; if he can't do what Nate and the team need him to do, Nate trusts Eliot to tell him.

That's probably the first thing he learnt to trust, Nate reflects as Eliot shifts again. This time he pins the movement down and reads it correctly – Eliot's uncomfortable; even as deeply asleep as he is, he can still feel the pain of his injuries and Nate suspects the sleep isn't one of healing and escape as much as its one of necessity. He wonders how often Eliot's had to resort to this kind of sleep and if anyone watched over him when he did. Nate doubts it. He sits forward on his chair, hands clasped between his knees as something, some emotion or long forgotten memory, flickers across the hitter's face and thinks back on how little he knows about Eliot's life. All the others have shared small instances of their pasts and childhoods, but aside from mentioning one time girlfriends and occasionally what knowledge he's picked up from them, Eliot remains tight-lipped about anything else. Nate has his suspicions, but doesn't feel the need to pry; he's not the man's therapist – and the thought of Eliot trying to explain himself to a therapist causes a small smile to touch his lips – if Eliot wanted to, he could say something at anytime. The fact he doesn't means he's likely made his peace with whatever went on a long time ago.

Still, he wonders what Eliot sees when he closes his eyes. He imagines there's not a lot of stuff just hammering to get out because, Eliot's temper aside, the hitter is remarkably at ease with himself. He's hurt people and he's killed people and he's okay with that. Nate doesn't know what he's told himself to justify it, he doesn't know if Eliot actually thinks he needs to justify it, but whatever Eliot's doing, it's working well for him. Until tonight, Nate amends, watching as Eliot frowns and shifts again. Maybe some well buried memory is working its way loose, or perhaps tonight's events haven't been properly compartmentalised but Eliot's dreaming. Nate can see his eyelids flicker with REM, can hear the hitter's breathing speed up, stop, begin again. Nate cocks his head slightly to one side, listening. Parker's words echo ominously, telling him he needs to make sure Eliot sounds right. Nate listens hard and feels a chill spread out from under his tee-shirt, skimming along the skin of his arms. Whatever Parker feared – whatever she saw coming – has arrived. The hitch in Eliot's breathing is strange, but it's not until Nate hears it in time with seeing a flinch that he can place it.

Eliot's not simply reacting to his dream. He's having trouble breathing.

Nate's on his feet and beside the couch in two strides but he pauses, hand above Eliot's body, just in time. To rouse a dreaming man to pain isn't without its risks and its likely Eliot's going to come up swinging so Nate hurries around the back of the furniture to give himself some measure of protection. Eliot's breathing hitches again, a strange wheeze accompanying it this time and Nate wastes no more time; gripping Eliot firmly on the knee – he doesn't want to go anywhere near that injured shoulder – Nate calls the hitter's name and shakes.


End file.
